Doubt
by Rebecca Steven Taylor
Summary: Aziraphale has doubts. Crowley doesn't have the words to dispel them. Shakespeare learns evil can love.
1. Chapter 1

1742

'Come and see Hamlet,' Crowley said, leaning on the doorframe of the coffee shop, looking surprised to have found Aziraphale.

Truth to tell, he'd been looking. He had woken up that day, gone over his thoughts, decided he wanted to see Aziraphale that day and couldn't wait, and found him in seconds. He always knew where the angel was. It was supposed to be a helpful demon protection to keep them apart, but Crowley was using it more and more and to keep an eye on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale looked up from the comfy corner seat of the shop and tried to ignore very hard the way his heart lurched when he saw Crowley leaning there. That was not an angelic emotion. Angels were calm and pure, and full of love only in a general, all of humanity but especially Heaven sort of way, not for insouciant mortal enemies.

'Why?' Aziraphale said, remembering he was supposed to be wary as he stood up.

'No reason,' Crowley said. 'Just because. It's the David Garrick revival…'

'That is supposed to be very good,' Aziraphale said. Well, why not? Even if Crowley did want something, his company was enjoyable, very enjoyable and Aziraphale wasn't actually doing anything right now. 'Yes, alright.' And Aziraphale grinned at Crowley and the world was alright for the demon for a while.

oOoOoo

The theatre was full, but miraculously some seats had become available in the front of the dress circle.

'Do you know, I haven't seen this since 1601,' Aziraphale said, as Crowley leaned over the balcony and got the orange girl to fling him a couple of oranges. 'I hear Shakespeare revised it slightly and I haven't seen the new bits.'

'It seems very popular,' Crowley said, handing him an orange. 'For one of the gloomy ones.'

'Yes, about that,' Aziraphale said. 'I did want to say…'

'Don't say thank you,' Crowley said sharply. 'You know we don't say thank you to each other. Don't want anyone to overhear an angel and a demon be grateful to each other.'

'Alright,' Aziraphale said. 'But I do have to say that you exceeded my wildest expectations when you made Hamlet popular.'

'As long as you're happy.'

And Aziraphale was. He tried not to think about it, but he was always happy with the demon. He was the kind of person who always felt awkward and out of place, not quite getting things right, around most people, including angels. He was happy with books, they didn't judge, but with Crowley – he felt himself. He didn't have to worry, for some reason, about being silly or ridiculous. It wasn't that Crowley didn't mock – he did, but oddly enough, for a demon, there was nothing malicious about it.

Aziraphale settled down to watch. There were some lines he hadn't heard before, whole sections moved around. Shakespeare had revised it quite a lot, it seemed, tightened up some sections, explained a few other parts. And then – Hamlet's letter to Ophelia.

_Doubt thou the stars are fire_

_Doubt that the sun doth move_

_Doubt truth to be a liar_

_But never doubt I love._

'That's new,' Aziraphale whispered. Crowley said nothing. He just stared at the stage, utterly transfixed. How had the man done it? How had he reached down into Crowley's soul and torn out the words and put them there? How had he known to say what Crowley could barely express?

'It's beautiful.' Aziraphale said. The words had reached him, the way words always did. Crowley looked at him, at the way his eyes shone, as he whispered the words to himself over and over to himself. And then he glanced at Crowley and smiled.

OoOoOo

1601

If Crowley wanted to make Hamlet popular just for one day, he could perform the miracle on the theatre. He wanted more than that. He wanted Hamlet to be popular for all time. It was a gesture of feelings that he could never express. For this miracle, he needed the words themselves. He climbed up the stairs to the tiny little room where Shakespeare scribbled.

He could hear things weren't going well, judging by the swearing inside. He opened the door just as Shakespeare cried out;

'That's it, I give up on Hamlet!'

'Don't do that,' Crowley said, leaning against the door. 'Give it another chance. It might take off.'

'It doesn't matter how many revisions I do, it'll never be right. I'm cancelling the whole thing. Who are you?'

Crowley smiled, a truly satanic sight in the dim candlelight.

'Someone who wants Hamlet to succeed. Do your changes, put it on tomorrow, it'll be a huge hit. You'll see.'

Shakespeare peered at him, blinking, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.

'You were in earlier. You like the funny ones,' he accused.

'But my friend likes Hamlet and wants it to succeed, and want he wants, he gets, so give it one more show.'

That was all that was needed really, but Crowley didn't move away. He was fascinated by what was going on here, all the stories and the words and the mind, all whirling together to create moments of breathless beauty. He hoped they'd last forever. Hamlet would, anyhow.

'Come into the light,' Shakespeare said, and Crowley did, sitting down opposite him. And then he did what he rarely did for anyone except Aziraphale – he took off his glasses. Shakespeare gasped, but didn't run, or scream. Instead, after a moment's fear, he leaned forward, taking in every inch of Crowley.

'I won't sell my soul to make Hamlet a success,' he said firmly.

'I'm not asking for your soul! What good is a writer without a soul?'

'Then why?'

'I told you – for a friend.'

'You must owe him.'

'Everything.'

Shakespeare got up and took some wine from the side, pouring it into two glasses. He handed one to Crowley, still afraid, but curious.

'Did you visit my friend Kit Marlowe?'

'No, I'm not Mephistopheles,' Crowley told him. 'Although I have to say, that play is a huge hit down in Hell.'

'I see,' Shakespeare said, sitting down. 'I'm beginning to think this is just a dream.'

'We are such stuff as dreams are made on,' Crowley said, the unusually eloquent lines floating into his head from somewhere. 'Let me ask you – Ophelia and Hamlet – are they supposed to be really in love?'

'I think so. It can be difficult to tell. My own characters run away from me. Why, don't you believe it?'

'Hamlet never says so,' Crowley said, walking to the window. He gazed out at the stars. 'He never swears it. Doesn't someone need words to express love?'

'Maybe a letter of some sort,' Shakespeare said, reaching for a pen. 'He could swear it was as constant as the stars…'

'Not the stars,' Crowley said, looking up. The sky was dotted with fire tonight, all his creations, forever untouchable to him, watching him always. 'Stars burn out. They're just rocks, and they will fall apart and shatter one day. And not the truth either. That changes from minute to minute. Love is eternal. It outlasts everything else.'

Shakespeare gazed at him in awe. He had made a discovery.

'Evil can love,' he whispered.

'What?' Crowley said, turning away from the window.

'Nothing. Go away. I have to write. Hamlet will be shown tomorrow. Goodbye.'

Crowley left, aware that something had happened in that tiny room, but not entirely sure what.


	2. Chapter 2

1862

Crowley slammed into his flat, and threw the stick at the wall. Well, that couldn't have gone more wrong, could it? Why couldn't he make the angel understand – this wasn't for him, it was for them, anyone who tried to separate them.

But Aziraphale was afraid – of what? Heaven? The rules? Not losing him. It couldn't that Aziraphale was afraid of losing him. He couldn't. Didn't the idiot understand that? Did he still doubt him?

Well, of course. His angel was a mass of insecurities and doubts and fears. Crowley loved that about him, as he loved everything, but he wished he knew how to dispel the doubts. Hadn't he proved himself, time and again?

But Aziraphale loved words. He wanted words. Just actions were never enough. Actions could be misinterpreted. He needed words and Crowley didn't know the right ones.

He opened Hamlet. There were the words in front of him. Shakespeare had reached into his soul and found his love and given it words. But it was only a quote now. Aziraphale would never know the words came from him.

Sighing, Crowley went to sleep.

OoOoOo

1941.

Aziraphale let Crowley into the shop, careful not to switch on the lights until the blackout blinds were down. Aziraphale carefully stowed the bag of books under his desk and went to the kitchen to find some sort of drink for them.

The bookshop was filled with blankets, and clothes and tins of food and all kinds of odds and ends.

'What's all this?'

'Oh,' Aziraphale said, coming out and looking. 'It's for people who are bombed out, and refugees and anyone really. They lose everything when they're bombed out and the government makes them fill in all sorts of forms and traipse all over town to get any kind of accommodation or blankets or anything. It's very inefficient, and of course some people would just like to avoid officialdom altogether. I'm just running a sort of centre where anyone can come and get what they need, no questions asked.'

'That's very kind of you,' Crowley said.

'It isn't much, really, when you look at what they've lost. I hope it helps.'

'It does, believe me. Look,' he picked up a tin of condensed milk and looked at the label, 'I can get you better stuff than this. No cost to you.'

'Isn't that the black market? That's illegal.'

'And do you think rich people are living off out-of-date condensed milk?' Crowley said. 'Think of it as a redistribution of wealth.'

'Well, when you put it like that,' Aziraphale said, looking round. 'That would be good of you, thank you.'

'Don't mention it, literally.'

Aziraphale moved back into the kitchen and Crowley moved over to the back room, looking around. It was far more cluttered than last time he had seen, and pictures had been stuck all over the walls. Paintings and quotes and ….

It was there. The Shakespeare quote. All four lines in beautiful calligraphy, right where Aziraphale could see it when he looked up from his desk. Crowley stared at it. His thoughts in Shakespeare's words right here, in front of Aziraphale.

'I do like that quote,' Aziraphale said, suddenly beside him. 'I look at it every time I go out. It gives me courage.'

'Did you look at it before you went out tonight?' Crowley asked, taking the glass of whisky from Aziraphale.

'I did. I don't know why, there are more suitable quotes from Shakespeare but somehow these words just seem to speak to me.'

Crowley looked at him as Aziraphale gazed at the words. Then the angel turned to him.

'You must have visited him the night he wrote this,' he said. 'He added these when he revised and you would have visited him then, to work the miracle. Did he say anything to you, about what inspired him?'

Say it, Crowley thought. Say it now. Say you love him, and he should never doubt you.

But the words weren't the only ones on the wall. Words from the Bible, from prayers, from old books of prophecy. Do your duty. Obey God. Obey Heaven. Only love Heaven. Do. Not. Sin.

He'd only just got his angel back. Nearly eighty years of not being with him had hurt far more than he had ever known it was possible. Not for a demon. He dare not risk it all now. It wasn't the right moment. Go...Sa…Someone knew when it would be, but not now.

'Didn't say a thing, sorry.'

'Oh.'

OoOoOoO

After Crowley had gone, Aziraphale sat in his chair and gazed at the words. He did doubt, he knew that, but when he looked at those words, nothing else mattered. Every other word was just a reminder. This – this quote made him strong. He could dare anything, if those words were spoken to him.

OoOoOoOo

1967

Crowley sat in his flat and stared at the thermos flask. Holy Water. He could feel it from here. His angel had given him Holy Water. He had argued and doubted and refused for 104 years, and now he had given it to him.

He had faith. Aziraphale had faith in him.

OoOoOoO

AFTER THE APOCALYPSE

The bus was very slow through the winding Oxfordshire lanes, and there was plenty of time to think. Aziraphale had been silent, and Crowley knew it was best, when he was in this sort of state, to leave him to it. At some point his hand had firmly clasped Crowley's and not let go. Perhaps he needed the comfort of touch, or reassurance Crowley wasn't dead.

Eventually, as they crossed the M25 – that mysteriously was no longer on fire – Aziraphale spoke.

'Doubt thou the stars are fire

Doubt that the sun doth move

Doubt truth to be a liar

But never doubt I love.'

'What?' Crowley said.

'I've been looking at those words for three hundred years now,' Aziraphale said. 'I've never been able to stop thinking about them. I could never understand why, but I think I've worked it out.'

He turned to look at Crowley.

'They're your words, aren't they?'

'Well, Shakespeare wrote them…'

'No, stop,' Aziraphale said. 'All kinds of things were bought out into the open today and I don't think this is any time to go back to old ways. I don't want to. I want it all laid out. If not your words, they are your thoughts, aren't they?'

Crowley held on to him tight. He'd always accused Aziraphale of doubting, but he had doubted too, never quite sure of what he could say, when he could say, never absolutely certain he would not lose his angel. He had seen the smiles, and the glances, and the love, and doubted every single time that it was true. Better be safe, better be sure, better wait. Well, he had waited, and look how that turned out. He nearly lost it all.

'Yes,' Crowley said. Aziraphale took a breath.

'About me?'

'Yes.'

'Well,' Aziraphale said, a little bit shakily. 'I have had doubts, but I don't anymore.' And quickly, before anyone could change their mind, he leaned forward and kissed Crowley on the lips, soft and sweet and certain. 'No more doubts, Crowley,' he whispered.

Crowley looked at his love, so close, finally there, beside him.

'No more doubts, angel.'


End file.
